


The Last Touch That Leaves Me Warm

by lemoninagin



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Established Relationship, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5053345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoninagin/pseuds/lemoninagin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it all comes crashing down, Izaya sometimes forgets that Winter will eventually turn into Spring, whether he wants it to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Touch That Leaves Me Warm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LegendofMajora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendofMajora/gifts).



> To my darling - no love, clay dicks, you know the drill <3

Izaya always wakes up cold.

It's not a physical cold, he thinks to himself as he reluctantly drags his aching body out from beneath chilly sheets, peels back cool blankets, removes the frigid duvet – it's the sort of cold that sits heavy in his bones. It's the tiredness that lays deep even after ten hours of nothing but blissful unconsciousness, a frosty ache that cannot be removed no matter how much he rests, no matter how much he slices dull metal across his flesh, no matter how many pills he chokes down the night before (more like the morning, as he watches the dawn with all the weariness of someone who's lived for centuries). 

No, if anything, it only makes him shiver more, and he does – let's himself tremble while he stumbles blearily to the bathroom. He can't remember if the shaking is supposed to be another unfortunate side effect or just a symptom from being consistently frostbitten - the grim aftermath that spills from his mind, infecting his entire body over and over with a deep poison that really, in the end, has nothing to do with manufactured chalky tablets and over-large capsules.

Although that doesn't mean he can't try to place the blame elsewhere.

The only reason his legs move is because he can still hear Shizuo's voice echoing in his head, soft and deep, always gently reminding him to keep from standing still, because if he sits down now then he'll never get anything done.

 _Shizu-chan's right_ , Izaya thinks with a chuckle that is devoid of any sort of warmth to heat his tired flesh. _But at the same time, he's consistently wrong. Ah, like Schrodinger's monster, perhaps?_

Izaya snorts that empty laugh again, a sound that is grating at best, but there's a tinge of pride because at least he's finally made it to the bathroom. There's a tapping that resounds as he drums his fingernails against the wall while he uses its firmness to guide him and keep him grounded. With his vision splitting and the usual throbbing just behind his temples, he's not sure how far he'll get today, but at least there is this -

One goal reached, and about a million more to check off. He would have liked to laugh more at that thought, but he's not sure he can muster the energy to. He already wants to crawl back to his bed, even if it's equivalent to the feeling of locking himself into a freezer.

 _“Baby steps, Izaya,”_ Shizuo whispers to him on nights that the trembling is so strong he has to hold him down, wraps his strong arms around him tight while he brushes sweaty hair away from his face, kisses and caresses him until the shaking becomes more subdued and eventually dies down to a slight quiver of his thin frame. _“You can't do everything all at once.”_

But Shizuo's not there to actually speak, he never is during this time - he always works well into the afternoon, and it's far past a reasonable time for having just gotten up. The sun's been up for so long it's probably about to make that trip back down again. Most of his humans have surely settled down for the day, returning home from work and school, mussing about with their own problems and heartache, and Izaya's only just raised himself from the dead so he can assess the damage that lines his arms.

It's not terrible - he's definitely had worse, he notes as he rolls over his forearm and inspects the torn skin that's a result from one too many fights being lost the day before. Maybe a gash too deep here and there, although nothing that reaches any deeper than that ice coursing through his veins. With a twist of a rusty knob, he runs the water at the hottest temperature he can in the sink, sticks his arm in under the scalding heat and holds back a hiss when it all comes pouring into his open wounds. The water quickly runs pink down the drain, and it's surprisingly pretty against the dull white of every inch of the lifeless bathroom interior.

It's the only time Izaya ever gets a hint of beauty, and to him it's never mattered much if it's at the expense of draining his own veins – in any case, he'd do anything to flush that frost out even though he knows every time he leaves a mark it never changes a god damn thing.

It doesn't hurt, it _never_ hurts - in fact, his skin is just as impenetrable as ever. The hiss comes from the dissatisfaction of it all, the predictability Izaya has always relished in being able to do himself and then in turn savors when he's pleasantly surprised.

Nothing is predictable or unpredictable anymore, and it's fine, really it's better this way because Izaya no longer cares to play with either. The flames have been smothered into useless ashes ages ago, and he's long since run out of matches.

This bitter taste of hopelessness on his tongue is one he's sure he can never remove.

Still, with all these thoughts clouding his mind he manages to remove his arm from the stream, pats it dry softly and resists the urge to dig in and repeatedly rip apart the barely re-coagulating cuts, and it's so hard because all he feels is _itchy, itchy, itchy_. His thoughts drift again to Shizuo, as it's the only way to keep himself centered as he mends what he only wants to tear into pieces.

 _“Bad night again, huh?”_ Shizuo says simply when he watches him undress and catches the angry red standing out from impossibly pale skin, hand outstretched just in case Izaya topples over from vertigo while he strips off his clothes and tries to find some semblance of balance on wobbly legs. Izaya's eyes are glassy, and he removes his gaze, afraid to face this man who is far too nice for his own good. Shizuo's voice is kind, doesn't press the issue, but no matter how much he treats Izaya like he's made of glass Izaya can still hear that small shift in tone – that hint of disappointment and concern that makes his skin crawl with further guilt.

_“It's okay. I'm here now.”_

It doesn't matter – he takes Izaya in his arms once he manages to weakly pull his pajamas on, completely limp and placid in his hold, no longer looking at Shizuo or really looking at anything. Shizuo knows there's never any strength left and he wishes he could somehow transfer some of his own monstrous strength into Izaya, channel it until some sort of revival is made. Because he hates that look, so uncharacteristic of this man he's always known to fight – that deadness that sits in his irises is all he sees these days, and it's almost too much to bear, makes him want to break into pieces because there's nothing he can do anymore but watch Izaya waste away. He's completely powerless for once, his fists all but useless and the thought only makes him want to destroy more - thinks that maybe, just maybe if he could somehow remove this pain that is hurting someone he so loves by any means possible, it could fix everything.

It's wishful thinking at best, but then again Shizuo has always been a hopeless romantic.

What Shizuo doesn't know is that he helps more than he knows, and Izaya would like to outright tell him some time but the words just never come, are communicated only through the small smiles Shizuo manages to pull from him whenever he holds him quietly and sifts a hand soothingly through his hair until his breathing evens out.

But what Izaya doesn't know is that after he slips into another medically induced nightmare, Shizuo sometimes falls apart, presses his wet covered eyes into lackluster skin and mouths unanswered prayers against the nape of his neck. He cries the tears for both of them, since he knows Izaya's too drained to even show that sliver of emotion, and if this is all he can manage to help then so be it.

The bathroom spins around him and Izaya sways, jolted from his thoughts and woozy for a moment until he grips the sink tightly – and that's when he sees it, the message scrawled in that endearing messy script across the glass that actually makes his lips turn upward and mean it for once. His memory must be bad today – he'd completely forgotten.

_“Good morning, babe! (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ Well, it's probably afternoon for you but that's ok. I hope you slept well. I'm sorry I can't be there right now, but I'll see you tonight. Please take your meds, alright? I know you don't like to, but I promise it will help. And if you don't want to do if for yourself, at least do it for me, ok? I ordered 'em out in the cabinet already for you. Lunch is in the fridge. Please try to eat at least a little. I've got a surprise for you later, nothing big, ha, but I think you'll like it.”_

It's always there, the message, but every time Izaya sees it he sees it as something new, a beacon of light and warmth in what seems like a never-ending hellhole of darkness and snow. It's never the same words, but it's more or less the same message, a small familiarity that rekindles that flame within him that he was so sure had been doused for good. The ice is chipping, cracking underneath him as the temperature slowly rises and then levels out, and that full-body flush creeps up his spine. He stands up straight and let's go of his crutch, the dizziness suddenly gone as he stares in wonder at his favorite part of the note which revitalizes that part of him, and he doesn't feel the need to hug his arms close to his body anymore because that heat is finally there.

If only for a brief moment, it's there - the last touch that leaves him warm.

_“I love you, Izaya. Stay Safe.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Alas, no booty today dear friends.


End file.
